


American Airlines Flight 101

by Anonymous



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-02
Updated: 2002-04-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 13:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: I know she hates flying, though she'd never admit it ... I hate flying, I'd never admit it to anyone, especially Leo, but I hate flying.





	American Airlines Flight 101

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**American Airlines Flight 101**

**by:** Loz 

**Category/Pairing:** Leo/Margaret  
****Rating:** YTEEN**  
**Summary:** I know she hates flying, though she'd never admit it ... I hate flying, I'd never admit it to anyone, especially Leo, but I hate flying.  
**Feedback:** The good, the bad and the very ugly it's all appreciated.  
**Disclaimers:** This is your captain Aaron Sorkin speaking, please return all tray tables to the upright position and all WW characters to their rightful owners... Ay capn'  


I know she hates flying, though she'd never admit it.

It's in the way she handles her coffee as we wait in the lounge for our flight to be called.

It's not about the coffee but in the way it's passed from hand to hand as if the warm drink only serves to make her palms sweatier.

She takes a mouthful, but she's totally distracted and I'm lead to assume by the look on her face, her tongue is now burnt.

Behind her eyes I can see her brain ticking over and I pause to reflect on just how much time I spend wondering how her mind works.

She's probably imagining every way possible she could plunge to her death on this flight, having read one to many novels and sensational press articles about the airline system in this country.

I take a mouthful of my coffee and turn the page of the Washington Post: -

"Death toll rises in Korean Airlines crash."

I quickly turn the page before she reads over my shoulder.

|~*~|

I hate flying, I'd never admit it to anyone, especially Leo, but I hate flying, I'm only partially conscious of the pass the parcel game I'm playing with my coffee. My mind is on other things.

I take a mouthful absently, not concentrating on the volume I tip into my mouth. It burns and now I have a burnt tongue...I hate burnt tongues, though not as much as I hate flying,

Leo is looking over at me, he can probably tell what I'm thinking or at least guess. I might as well save him the effort and type up an inter-office memo.

I've read to many books, I know that seems wrong, but my choice of literature runs to those airline disaster books by John. J. Nance, the guy who consults on aviation matters for the media.

If I didn't already know every way a plane could crash, I do now and up until this point the books were very entertaining, now they're just feeding my anxiety.

What did I just see in his paper about Korean airlines?

|~*~|

I know she hates flying. But she wouldn't knock back this trip, not after missing the 20 hours spent in LA

It's in the way she smiles nervously at the woman who swipes our tickets and the way she steps carefully onto the plane. I could care less for the sugarcoated smiles of the 'customer service representatives.'

No sooner has she sat down, she clicks the belt around herself. I search for the New York Times and lean my chair back waiting while economy class gets on, wondering if I'll ever be on a flight that takes off on time.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see her brain firing again. She's probably wondering what good a belt is going to do as we plummet to the earth.

I probably won't even bother with mine unless the 'customer service representative' asks.

I'd order her an alcoholic drink though I know drinking would only heighten her anxiety.

Page three of the Times reports that the concord is to fly again.

|~*~|

I hate flying, there I said it, but we're going cross-country so what choice do I have. I'm not about to miss this trip, even if it is just Leo and I, like I missed the LA one because he was needed in Washington, I needed a tan.

I barely smile at the woman who swipes my ticket, she'll probably get on her radio once I'm gone telling the air hostesses to watch out for me, maybe my smile is asking for help.

The seat belt is there so I put it on; though I fully intend to ask how much use it's going to be when we're falling to the ground at some super sonic pace. Still for good measure I pull it tight across me.

I think a drink would calm my nerves, but they don't start serving till we're horizontal, which is to late, I need something to knock me out now.

I suspect a nuclear war could be raging around Leo right now and he'd keep on reading the New York Times.... wait what's that about the concord, didn't one of them explode shortly after takeoff?

He's obviously oblivious to my situation.

|~*~|

I'm not oblivious to her situation as she follows the in flight safety demonstration meticulously with the card in the back of the seat. Every commercial plane I travel on is from Boeing so I refuse to believe the safety instructions are different from airline to airline.

When it's over she bobs her head in the way that she does when she's pleased with herself and a small smile creeps across my face.

I watch her slide the card in and straighten the airline magazines till they're even, she finishes with a satisfied little sigh and her hands fall gracefully into her lap.

The first officers' voice comes over as we travel down the tarmac and I suspect she's silently asking the man at the controls to remember the fact her life is in his hands. He's probably flown more times than she's driven her car.

As we slow to a stop I see her mind kick in for all the possibilities of our pause.

Mass mechanical failure.

Two planes land on the perpendicular runway as she watches out the window. It's too close for her comfort and I realize the window seat was a bad idea.

|~*~|

I watch the safety demonstration without distraction; Leo I suspect doesn't bat an eyelid. Fine with me as long as I don't have to be helping him with his oxygen mask when the cabin de-pressurizes.

I bob my head in thanks once the demonstration is over and I really can't condemn the air hostesses for their dour expressions. If I'm inflating my life jacket, I'm no going to be smiling either. But they could at least take some pride in the plane; some over paid executive has stuffed the pocket like a turkey's bum.

I'm ready to fly now.

The first officers' voice fills the cabin. I silently ask him to remember my life is in his hands. How do I know he's not up there alone, shot the captain and is about to hijack us?

I'm Ok as we taxi the runway, but my mind activates again when we stop. What has failed, what has broken, I should be relieved we're on terra firma.

Oh my god those planes almost hit us, I look around and once again Leo isn't the least bit interested. What are those guys in the towers doing? This isn't Dupont circle.

I'm going to die today...and I haven't spoken to my mother in a month.

|~*~|

I find myself smiling yet again because she's probably thinking about all the people she hasn't spoken to in months that she won't have the opportunity to say goodbye to. At her age, she probably never bothered with a will and custody of her cats will weigh heavily on her mind.

I watch her long elegant fingernails curl around the armrests as the plane sharply accelerates. Each wobble and shudder of the plane doesn't pass her by and I can only imagine the scenarios going through her head.

A quick glance over confirms her whole body and face are braced; her eyes still open as if shutting them may make her fear obvious.

She grips tighter as we bank; so tense she's almost pushing herself up and out of the chair.

One we're level I observe her muscles gradually unclench. I wonder if she'd believe me when I told her she was more likely to die in a car accident.

I wonder, retrospectively, if Mrs. L ever flew.

|~*~|

A week ago I had a manicure, now as we take off, I'm going to break everyone on the underside of my relatively generous seat.

Constant giggling and jerking serves only to remind me I'm presently thousands of miles about the ground...and climbing. I can't help but decide the left wing is going to come loose and fall free at some stage during the flight.

I try desperately to distract myself with the video screen up front, but another jerk sends my brain scrambling to ask did I turn off my phone, or is it presently scrambling the communications systems up front.

I've heard the statistic that you're more likely to die in your car than in a plane, I don't care, my life is in a strangers hands on this plane, I'm in charge of my car.

Then so was Mrs. L.

|~*~|

She seems Ok for the rest of the flight, if Ok is getting up to go to the bathroom a half a dozen times.

Down the slim aisle I stop the young lady who bought us our drinks and ask if she knew if Margaret had been sick.

She picks at her meal like a bird.

Not that I'm advocating in flight meals are of any standard let alone high.

"Are you all right?" I'm tired of holding it back.

From over the top of my glasses I watch her simple nod and try and force herself to relax some more.

"Food left a lot to be desired didn't it." I gently cover my hand with hers on the armrest between us.

She stiffens at the personal contact causing me to immediately recall my hand.

|~*~|

My stomach is churning like a washing machine, it has been for the whole flight, I've been up eight times to go to the bathroom and I'm sure Leo knows something is wrong now.

I watched him in conversation with the woman who bought us our drinks and it was hardly a 'how long till we land' conversation and I highly doubt he was asking her out for dinner when we arrive.

If it's possible the meal looks more manufactured than McDonald's and my stomach protests at even the mere sight of it.

I can feel Leo's cool eyes watching me push the mush around the foil carton; his next assumption will probably be that I'm anorexic.

"Are you all right." he uses his voice for the first time in the flight and I wonder just how long he's been wanting to ask that question.

I on the other hand can't bring myself to speak afraid my answer might give something away; so I nod politely as I always do...it's respectful.

"Food left a lot to be desired didn't it." he adds as I feel his warm hand cover mine. Right now I'm not sure what to do with that hand, to do about that hand, to think about the reasons behind that hands gravitation to mine.

Whatever it is I've blown it because it recalls quickly and the small measure of comfort it bought to me is lost.

|~*~|

Above me the tiny ring of the seat belt light signals the return to tense Margaret. 

She fiddles about with her carry on in the overhead locker and puts the magazines back in the pocket in front of her.

I watch as she pulls the seat belt tighter around her till I think she might be at risk of cutting off the circulation to her lower body.

Her hands clamp around the armrests again as we descend slightly, her eyes squeeze shut and she continually swallows to try and clear her ears from the effects of altitude change.

I, on the other hand will be just happy to be able to walk in an open space.

I watch her peek out the window, however there are no lights visible yet, and the sight of black open space presses her body back into the chair further.

We lurch a little at 3000 feet and a little 'Oh' escapes from her lips.

That's when I make my decision.

"Margaret."

|~*~|

The light I have been fearing makes it's dastardly appearance and I go about putting my carry on locked above me...somehow in movies the hand luggage is the first thing to fall, though being knocked out by Leo's overstuffed briefcase before plunging to my death is a better option than being conscious.

The truth is I hate landing more than taking off and my hands start to shake a little as I pull the belt tighter around me...maybe a little too tight, I don't want to lessen my chances of having children.

After take off I only have half a manicure left and when we touch down I predict I'll have none, but I'm here for political reasons not to parade a catwalk somewhere.

I'm beyond caring what Leo thinks anymore as I squeeze my eyes up, I have that terrible feeling of my stomach rising inside of me and my ears are blocking with the change in altitude, I can't clear them and as the pressure builds it becomes slightly painful.

I can't see any lights out the window and I'm panicking myself further wondering if the pilot has missed the approach.

We lurch suddenly and a little yelp escapes through my mouth, he has to know I hate flying now.

"Margaret." he asks gently and I curse his timing, I just don't have time for the anxiety attack I deserve.

|~*~|

I slide my hand tenderly into hers gripping it firmly.

"It's Ok." I squeeze her hand gently hoping she won't clutch at me too hard and cut my circulation.

There's still fear written over her face and we're at 1000 feet and we lurch again.

|~*~|

This time I don't flinch as he grips his hand in mine, I'm grateful and I don't think he's going to say anything about my lack appreciation of flying.

"It's Ok." he soothes. I have to concentrate hard not to deaden his hand as my sister did to mine during the birth of her daughter.

I'm doing all right with his support and then we lurch again.

|~*~|

I honestly don't remember Jenny gripping my hand this hard with Mallory.

I pull out my last card, and to be totally honest with myself it's something I've wanted to do for a long time.

|~*~|

He's kissing me.

His right hand is pressed lightly against my cheek and his lips are brushing softly over mine.

While we're being honest...I've wanted this for a while, but I'm not sure these are the circumstances I imagined it under.

There's a loud noise outside I almost don't notice.

He opens my lips gently and softly explores my mouth with his tongue and it's now I could by sitting on top of a bird flying south for the winter and I wouldn't care.

Thoughts of over shooting the runway are far from my mind as I raise my hand that isn't clasped with his to his cheek.

|~*~|

This isn't how I imagined it would be, that is a distraction kiss from our landing.

It works though, she only partially notices the flaps rising and by the time the pilots lean heavily on the brakes everything around her has ceased to exist.

I've got to wonder though when I notice her long fingers complete with broken nails brush gently across the side of my face if this has come to be more and she feels the same way as I do about her.

As we taxi to the terminal I gently seperate our lips.

|~*~|

It had to end.

I hate that, then I realise I'm on the ground heading for the terminal and I'm left with a sickly feeling that the kiss was just a distraction, a good one...the kiss and the distraction.

I'd trade all the flying anxiety in the world for the feeling I'm experiencing now.

|~*~|

Her eyes haven't left mine.

She looks worried, worse than during the flight and I realize she's probably considering my action and their meanings.

I'm sure there's a tear threatening in her left eye.

I can't help myself but brush it away with the pad of my thumb, capturing my lips with hers again, telling her what the true intentions of my kiss were.

|~*~|

Welcome to Los Angeles, the current time is 21:30 local time, we've enjoyed your company on board our flight this evening and we hope you'll join us again soon on American Airlines, we trust you've enjoyed your flight.

|~*~|

I did, I whisper leaning my lips towards his again as the people around us reach into the overhead storage compartments.

|~*~|

So did I, I whisper running my hands through her hair.

And around us nobody takes any notice the Chief of Staff from the White House kissing his assistant.


End file.
